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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232982">as a motive</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornen/pseuds/mornen'>mornen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Gondolin, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Short, Sort Of, Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 09:01:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232982</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornen/pseuds/mornen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They fell. One slip on the stone, the staircase. It was wet. Wet from rain. Rain could make it over the mountains, find Tumladen (maybe even keep a secret.)</p><p>Túrin fell, boot slipped, couldn’t catch himself, fell fast onto Maeglin. He felt Maeglin’s sword against his leg. Thought of woods and running, leaping, falling. How he can never catch himself. </p><p>Once is a mistake. Twice is a habit. This many times is deep misfortune.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maeglin | Lómion/Túrin Turambar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>as a motive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They fell. One slip on the stone, the staircase. It was wet. Wet from rain. Rain could make it over the mountains, find Tumladen (maybe even keep a secret.)</p><p>Túrin fell, boot slipped, couldn’t catch himself, fell fast onto Maeglin. He felt Maeglin’s sword against his leg. Thought of woods and running, leaping, falling. How he can never catch himself. </p><p>Once is a mistake. Twice is a habit. This many times is deep misfortune. Túrin feels the slip of his skin on the stone. He pulls back with blood on his hands. </p><p>Maeglin says nothing. Túrin is on top of him. Maeglin has eyes as deep as a century. (A century is a long time when you will die within it.)</p><p>Túrin draws back. </p><p>‘My apologies,’ he whispers, and he thinks that maybe he is afraid of something happening now. Something thrown, something broken. More blood on the steps, on the stone, on his hands. </p><p>Maeglin watches. </p><p>Túrin swallows down a word he has not meant to say. A soft ‘I’ coming from pity. I too lost my mother (she may not be dead.) I too lost my father (he may not be dead.) I too know what it is to be from the outside, to be now on the inside, to fall so hard and so fast that you can’t even blame it on the rain. </p><p>He offers his hand out to Maeglin, even with the blood, and Maeglin does not take it. Maeglin stands alone. </p><p>They stare at each other, neither speaking. Túrin waits for Maeglin to make a remark. Call him a mortal. Blame him for slipping. He slipped. Maeglin didn’t. (Can’t blame the rain.)</p><p>‘It was an accident,’ Maeglin says. His black hair is bound back with gold, tied in three places down his back. He keeps his hands to his sides. They are cut. A drop of blood rolls down his finger. It falls on the step, melds into the rain, washes away over the stone. </p><p>It’s gone too fast to trace the route. The rain is coming down harder. Maeglin stands with one hand behind his back, bent at the elbow, hand upwards, holding the back of his hair. </p><p>‘What do you make of me?’ he asks, point blank, eyes too sharp to find anything behind them, a whole army of spears to block you. </p><p>‘I don’t,’ Túrin says.</p><p>Maeglin’s lips twist. He almost smiles. </p><p>‘No, I suppose you don’t.’ He pushes past Túrin up the stairs, pushes much too close for it to be necessary, his shoulder brushing Túrin’s, his arm brushing Túrin’s arm, his fingers brushing knuckles to knuckles, fingers to fingers, and leg to leg, one finger caught for one moment against Túrin’s finger, and then gone again, hurrying without stumbling up the wet stairs. </p><p>Túrin stands and watches him climb without a pause, without any fear. How his hair grows darker as the rain comes down hard upon him. Túrin closes his eyes. There is more blood on his hands.</p>
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